


Shelter

by omg_okimhere



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-12 22:31:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11746515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omg_okimhere/pseuds/omg_okimhere
Summary: It was a dark and stormy night...





	Shelter

Driven before the wind, pelting sheets of rain angle down from the night sky, turning the coast road into a muddy challenge for horse and carriage, buffeting the lone vehicle on its lonely journey. Little shelter is afforded by the awning over the driver’s seat, yet the man drives the draft animals on till their pasterns are buried with each step.  Eventually, the muck-caked wheels sink to a stop in front of a modest manor house, and a woman steps out, turning to offer words of thanks and farewell to the other occupant before braving the gale.  Pulling her cloak tightly about her and ducking her head inside her hood, Francine runs as fast as she dares in heeled boots up the path to Stone’s Throw.

Once under cover of the porch she waits a moment, allowing the rivulets of water to run off her garment and pool at her feet, while she mentally reviews the past hours.  The Tuesday evening meeting of the Library Society is an important pursuit for the betterment of the community -- bringing a book lending system to the village.  As chairwoman, she could hardly have opted to stay in, no matter the weather.  The standing offer of escort and a shared conveyance with her closest neighbor is most welcome.  In truth, Bennet can be a bit grumpy about anything that keeps him from his hearth of an evening, especially be it a room full of talk.

As the next seaborne gust sighs through the eaves, Francine levers the latch, finding welcome refuge inside the warm, kerosene-lit entryway. 

It hits her immediately, assaulting her senses, ere she has the chance to hang her mantle and gloves on the ornate coatrack.

Upper lip wrinkling, nostrils flaring, Francine looks around in perplexity as she sheds her outergarments.  The smell is unmistakable, pervasive – like someone left a woolen cardigan out in the storm, after rolling it through manure first.  Finding no sodden sweaters in the vicinity, she follows her nose into the drawing room, where the musky odor is even stronger.

“Back so soon?”  Bennet looks up from the periodical unfolded in his lap, a too-cheery grin on his face.  At his feet is an old peach crate lined with a blanket – a makeshift bed for the most bedraggled corgi Francine has ever seen.  At the sound of her entry, the sodden pup lifts its big-eared head and fixes her with hopeful brown eyes.

Equally hopeful blue eyes beseech her from the armchair.

“He was sheltering in the barn, shiverin’ and whimperin’,” recounts Bennet.  “I couldn’t just leave him.  He needed to get warm.”

Wordlessly Francine nods, taking a step closer.  The roaring blaze Bennet has built in the fireplace is making the room beyond warm, almost stifling, the heat only serving to enhance the unique smell of wet dog.  Pulling over a hassock to sit upon, Francine reaches down slowly to scratch their visitor’s forehead.  He closes his eyes in bliss, wiggling his stump of a tail.

“Whose do you think he is?” Francine wonders, noting the lack of identifying collar.

Bennet puts aside his reading, leaning in close to run his hands over the dog’s squat body. 

“No one 'round here has a dog like this,” he says quietly.  “I expect he’s been cast aside like an old shoe by some city toff."

Francine looks up, meeting his gaze in dismay and pity, the soothing pat of her hand momentarily stayed in her distraction.  A sturdy paw pointedly pulls at her forearm, coaxing her to continue.

“He’s naught but skin and bones beneath all that fur.”  Bennet strokes the tawny canine head gently.  “I gave him a couple of bangers and some bread.”

“Did you like that?” Francine croons softly into the furry face, feeling her heart go out to the orphan.  Who would abandon a sweet, companionable creature like this to starve?  Her gaze falls with infinite tenderness on the kind-hearted man who took him in.

“I gather you think we should keep him,” Francine remarks with a soft smile.

Bennet’s visage is set in earnest conviction.  “He found his way to us for a reason.  We cannot turn him away.”

Francine makes a show of giving a reluctant sigh, just to be playful.  “He needs a bath, if he is to stay,” she points out with a dubious eyebrow raise.

“Tomorrow.  First thing,” Bennet promises hastily, grinning like a schoolboy with his first puppy.

Francine laughs.  “And have you settled on a name?”

“I was calling him Stormy,” Bennet admits, a bit sheepish.  “He seemed to like it.”

With one last ear-scratch for the foundling, Francine comes to her feet.  For her lover, she reserves a lingering kiss.

“When you have Stormy sorted for the night, come to bed,” she whispers.  “I want to share with you _every detail_ of the meeting.”

Bennet watches her glide from the room, his senses quickening.  Her words may promise boredom, but the touch of her lips is a pledge of something more.

“C’mon, boyo,” Bennet urges the dog brusquely, heading for the door.  “Time to finish your business for the day.  And quickly," he adds, his mind already on his own evening's business -- business of an altogether different nature.


End file.
